Page 5 of Untamed

I spin around on instinct. My heel snags on a slope and I become airborne. Not gracefully airborne. More “drunken woodland creature startled by headlights.”

I don’t fall. I’m caught.

Two arms. One around my waist, one steadying my shoulder, pulling me up against a chest that feels like sculpted marble and emergency.

Silence, warmth, close proximity.

No bloody way is he real. He’s tall. Built like Greek mythology. His face is half in shadow but all intensity. Eyes dark. Lips unmoving but faintly curved like he knows he’s messing with me. My hand is fisted in his shirt like a damsel with zero chill. His heartbeat is calm. Mine sounds like a drumline at We Are Fest.

“Ti ho presa.”

My brain short-circuits. My mouth opens. No useful words emerge.

“What?” I finally squeak, which is disappointing for everyone involved.

He doesn’t repeat himself. Just stares like he’s trying to decide if I’m a threat, a lost tourist, or his next problem.

Then in English. Dripping with an accent that could cause international incidents.

“Who are you?”

I shift, trying to put space between us. His hand is still on my waist, searing through the fabric of my dress. I straighten quickly, pulse hammering beneath my skin.

“I should be asking you that,” I say, trying for sharp but landing somewhere closer to flustered. “Do you always sneak up on people and scare them half to death?”

“If they’re trespassing on my property, yes.”

My stomach dips.

I glance around at the vineyard, then back at him.

“And I don’t usually make a habit of saving them. You’re lucky you’re still breathing.”

“Wha—yourproperty?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

He nods once.

Oh, so I’m trespassing? Okay, deep breaths. Don’t make it weird.

Of course, I’d be the idiot who drunkenly wandered into someone else’s vineyard and nearly fell into the arms of a living, breathing villain origin story.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” I blurt, stumbling over my words. “I didn’t realise. I must’ve walked farther than I thought. I’ll leave, promise.”

I start to step away, but then his voice, deep and casually infuriating, stops me.

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

“What question?”

He leans in just enough that I feel his breath when he speaks. Is this dramatic? Yes. Is my brain short-circuiting? Also yes.

“Who are you?”

“I’m… Jordyn. Jordyn Windslow.”

Something shifts in his expression. Recognition flashes through his eyes, like he just solved a very intense Wordle.

“Windslow,” he repeats. “You’re Bianca’s little sister.”

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